


Flames

by glitchfics



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Cock Piercing, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Piercings, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8810986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchfics/pseuds/glitchfics
Summary: Good little college boy Marco goes to a punk show with his cousin, Ymir, and leaves it with leather-clad Jean. 
A fic that I wrote as a part of my very slow progress on the 30 day OTP challenge. Unsurprisingly, I got carried away, and it became something of its own. I hope you enjoy! As per usual, I appreciate every single comment and kudos!





	

Marco didn’t exactly fit in there. “There” being a punk concert in a sketchy back lot. Asphalt patched with concrete was broken and humped by scraggly weeds and errant tree roots. A pile of nail-studded, half-rotted plywood was the only thing there besides the crowd of leather and strategically ripped fishnets. The chain link that bordered it all was rusted and peeling away from metal poles. 

“Stop gawking; you look like a dork.” Ymir shoved him with her shoulder. “Well, more of a dork.” Her eyes appraised his outfit disapprovingly. A black sweater and dark wash jeans were about as “punk” as he was willing to go. At least compared to her thick-soled combat boots and ratty tank top. Even Historia had turned out, torn silk slip draped over her petite frame, her girlfriend’s spiked leather jacket around her shoulders. 

She swatted at Ymir. “I think he looks really… nice. Very college.”

His smile looked more like a grimace, but he thanked her all the same. He knew that he stuck out, but lately he’d been trying to spend more time with his cousin after their grandmother’s passing. If that meant skulking around an old parking lot with her and her girlfriend, Marco was willing to do it. Plus, he’d a found a copy of his recent article on child development in her car. If Ymir was willing to read something so far from her own interests and, frankly, dense, making an appearance at the concert she’d put together wasn’t beyond him.

They kept on like that for awhile, Marco trailing awkwardly behind Ymir, Historia on her arm as she greeted people with slams on the back and resounding laughter. Eventually he found himself on the fringes of the crowd, hands jammed in his pockets as he tried to sway to what was playing up on the few wooden pallets that were acting as the stage. Whatever it was had a lot of drums, and that had whipped nearly everyone in attendance into a frenzy as dusk deepened to night.

It was almost animalistic; dust rising as boots hammered the ground, metal clinking, voices rising and twining together until they weren’t more than an androgynous tendril of sound piercing the dark sky. There was a method to it all, a dissonant rhythm. It was a writhing sort of sound; he could almost feel his heart beating in time with it. 

That was, until he felt someone bump into him. 

Marco looked down quickly, already shaking his head and apologizing.

The someone was smirking. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Was my fault.” Hazel eyes regarded him warmly for a moment. “Could I get you a drink to make up for it?” He offered his hand. “Jean, by the way.”

Now Jean looked like he fit in. He had black smeared around those golden eyes, a dark, shaggy undercut, and skin tight leather pants that rode low on his slender hips. Quickly, he took his hand; it was cool and slim-fingered, and his grip was loose without being underwhelming.

“Ah- Marco.”

“Well, Marco-” The way his tongue cradled the word warmed freckled cheeks. “You wanna get out of here?”

His eyes widened. It had been a minute since he’d walked off with a virtual stranger. A minute, meaning since freshman year of college. Right now, the idea of leaving with Jean was quite tempting. Maybe it was the unbelievably shitty beer that was running through his system right now. Maybe it was how oddly attracted he found himself to leather pants. Maybe it was those eyes; they flustered him before words even came out of Jean’s mouth. 

“Sure.”

“Yeah?” He looked surprised for a second, but it melted into a crooked smile. “Cool; I know a good place up on Rose Street.”

“Do you mind if I find my cousin before we leave? I came here with her.”

“Whatever you need.”

Before Marco could smile and lead him over to Ymir, he heard her call his name from halfway across the lot. His cheeks went a different kind of red when he saw her walking over to him in her drunken swagger, an exasperated Historia babysitting her. He wasn’t exactly the king of hook-ups, and he didn’t need to preface whatever he and Jean were about to do with his loud, drunk, scary, _loud_ cousin. He looked pleadingly at the blonde by her side, who only gave him a knowing shake of her head. 

“What up, Freckles. Havin’ a good time?” She was gripping his shoulder and eyeing Jean from under her brow. “Why’re you hangin’ out with this shithead?”

Jean was glowering, sharp, dark brows knitting together. His cheekbones looked higher, the chiseled hollows beneath them deeper. All of it contrasted with the soft, ashy blond of his hair. Admittedly, “pissed” wasn’t a bad look on him. 

“What?”

Ymir ran a hand through her buzz cut and leaned on him harder. “Why’re you-” Historia pinched her with a pointed frown. 

“ _Ymir_ is your cousin?”

He winced and nodded. It shouldn’t be a surprise to him that this was happening. It was kind of impossible to forget the scowl, the buzz cut, the easily-ignited temper. That being said, most people that he met knew of Ymir. And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. She had one soft spot, and it was for her girlfriend. Everyone else was in constant danger of being subjected to the most scathing eye-roll of their life, painfully accurate insults, or knuckles. Judging by the look on Jean’s face, he’d been subjected to one of the latter. 

“We were actually just-”

“Motherfucker! Do I need to hit you in the mouth again? Who said you could fuck around with my little cousin?”

“-leaving.” The word was quiet, and he blew a tired sigh through his nose. First of all, he was only _little_ by a few months. Second of all, _of course_ she’d hit him. Of course. There was a small, silvery scar that marked his Cupid’s bow, and when he opened his mouth, his tongue flashed over a tiny chip in his front tooth. Would’ve been cute if it hadn’t come from a particular fist. 

Marco shook her grip off and slid his hand into Jean’s. “Ymir, I love you, but we were just leaving.” He started dragging Jean off, yelling over his shoulder. “I’m sorry; I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He stopped them once they were off the lot, turning to the man at his side and letting go of his hand. The air was cool - not sharp - against his skin. Enough to raise the hair on his arms without a chill piquing his nerves. It was pitch dark save for the orange, sputtering glow of streetlights that filtered down through sparsely-leafed tree branches. The the negative space in the foliage fell across Jean’s face, highlighting one eye, the slope of a narrow nose, the scar on his mouth. Before he could apologize, those lips parted. 

“So, family, huh?”

“I am so sorry; I understand if you don’t want to leave. I just thought it would be better to get out of there before she really hulked out.”

Jean laughed dryly and tapped his lip. “I’m familiar.” He started to walk off and looked at Marco with a tip of his head. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

Anyone who was willing to persevere through an angry, very drunk Ymir was either crazy, worth spending time with, or both. He smiled and caught up, matching Jean’s leisurely stride. The music faded behind them as they walked up to Rose Street, and he marveled that the blonde wasn’t cold. Or at least that he wasn’t letting himself _seem_ cold. The tank top he’d draped over a leanly muscled frame was fine black mesh that revealed the physique beneath it, not that it was a bad thing.

“So- ah-”

“Why did Ymir knock my teeth in?”

His laugh was sheepish. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We were both hot-headed and hammered. I might’ve gotten a little rowdy at one of those concerts of hers awhile ago. Didn’t exactly learn my lesson.”

“Which one?”

“I still love getting hammered.” He grinned. “What about you?”

“I’ve been known to down one or two.” Not necessarily true, but it was tonight. 

“I like the sound of that.” The muscles in his arm shifted subtly he held the door open. 

The bar wasn’t exactly what he expected of Jean. It was paneled, furnished, and decorated with dark wood, and it smelled heavily of leather in the best way possible. In the way that Jean smelled liked leather. It wasn’t high brow, but it also wasn’t the gritty, peeling paint and safety pins punk spot that he imagined. With the rough-hewn, bearded men, it read more like a biker bar. 

The bartender fit in with the rest of them, broad and brawny with his shirt sleeves pushed up past his elbows, his heavy jaw dusted in wiry blonde curls. His stony visage cracked with a wide smile when he saw them. 

“How’re ya doin’, Jean? Who’s this?”

Marco sat in the bar stool that was pulled out for him, reaching across the slab of wood to shake the bartender’s hand. 

“This is… Marco. Marco, this is Reiner. He can make a good fuckin’ drink.”

Reiner chuckled. “Ya don’t usually introduce ‘em,” he said, despite the look he earned from Jean. “And ya know Bert’s much better at drinks than I am, but the baby keeps getting these damn ear infections. Can’t leave ‘er with a sitter, and Bert has that magic touch - only person who can get ‘er t’ sleep. But that doesn’t make for much date talk, so what’ll ya have?” 

At the mention of date talk, even the tips of Jean’s ears grew warm. Had his hair been gelled up, they wouldn’t have been hidden so well. 

“Just beer is fine.” His voice sounded hard, like he was mad - but not really - at Reiner.

Marco raised a finger. “I actually wouldn’t mind a wine and coke.” He was met with a snort. 

“I thought you wanted to get drunk; that sounds like something my mom would drink.”

He quirked his eyebrows up and shrugged, resting his chin on his fist. Soft brown eyes flicked over to Reiner as he shook his head and traced circles on the bar top. “Maybe-” He bobbed his head like he was weighing the words. “-I should call up my cousin and have her give you another cute scar. I mean, unless you want to keep knocking my favorite drink.”

Jean’s hands rose up by his ears in defeat. “That sounds like two wine and cokes to me. And a few beers. Because I’m all about compromise.” 

“Bert’s goin’ t’ laugh his ass off t’night,” Reiner muttered as he slid them their drinks.

The first round they drank slowly, talking in between sips of calimocho and beer. Marco’s laughter grew warmer, looser. Jean’s bravado increased, fingers curling as he called for shots.

Another round, accompanied by the amber whiskey slid to him across the dwindling space between them. At this point, he sounded more giggly than anything else, and Jean, having proved himself a lightweight, was flushed and easily impressed by the world’s shittiest slight of hand. 

The tally came in at two and a half wine and cokes, somewhere between two and three beers, and shots: too many. Per man.

“You two are about t’ get yourselves kicked out of this bar,” Reiner grumbled, sopping up a spilled shot with a rag and pointing it at Jean. 

Marco looked over at him, laughing so hard that he coughed when he saw Jean laying across the bar. Soft strands had fallen over his forehead, and he reached over tentatively to smooth them back. His features didn’t look as sharp, not with the pleasantly drunk grin plastered across his face. Fingers caught at Marco’s, bringing them between that scarred Cupid’s bow and supple bottom lip, biting gently. 

“Like it when you touch my hair. Wanna touch yours.”

He bowed his head obligingly, closing his eyes at the peak of heat that rose along either side of his spine when fingers rasped over his scalp and gripped at brunette roots. 

Reiner wrinkled his nose and snapped the towel on the counter in between them. “Take that outside; I’ll call ya a cab, Jeanbo, but ya need to go.”

“I don’t think we need a cab,” he murmured. His breath warmed Marco’s fingers. 

“I don’t know; my car is back near the concert.”

Jean hesitated. “My apartment’s pretty close.”

Marco wanted this - wanted him - badly. Wanted to strip those fucking leather pants off. Wanted to push his shirt up his chest. Wanted to straddle his lap and grip the nape of his neck. Among other things. The thoughts that flickered through his mind scalded his blood and quickened the rhythm of the beat in his breast. He nodded, and this time, it was Jean dragging him by the hand. He only lived maybe a block away, but the chill had intensified; it seeped into his skin now.

He noticed gooseflesh rising on Jean’s arms and chafed his palm up and down cool skin as they walked. Neither was drunk enough to stumble, but they wavered, sharing soft laughter on the way to his apartment. Thankfully, they only had to battle their way up one flight of narrow stairs. “Thankfully” because his eyes were glued to a leather-clad ass the entire way up. The moment they reached a dark green door, he leaned against Jean, pressing him to the door as wide hands cupped his backside. 

A low hum escaped him when narrow hips rocked back slowly as Jean angled his head over his shoulder for a kiss. 

“Have to let me open the damn door,” he murmured hungrily against Marco’s lips. The lock rattled as he thrust the key in and they nearly fell to the floor, hands snatching at each other’s clothing. 

His foot nudged the door closed behind them. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Hands fisted in black cable knit and backed him into a door that hung slightly ajar. “Right here.”

The bed squeaked beneath them, Marco pulling Jean overtop of him and propping a leg up by his hip as they kissed. Jean wasn’t shy, nipping kisses and leaving him lightheaded as the blood abandoned the top half of his body. Lips brushed along his jaw and the column of his throat, leaving rushing wakes of sensation. He cupped his hand over dark undercut, his head falling back against the pillow as Jean set about marking him. It was almost impossible not to roll his arousal up against the man on top of him. 

Jean’s laugh was quick, fluttering against Marco’s neck. “Could’ve told me that’s what you wanted.” Those fingers slipped deftly down his body and cupped the bulge in the front of dark wash denim, rubbing slowly. “Gonna make you feel so good.” He slid to the edge of the bed and stood, crossing the room and bending over to rummage through a dresser drawer. While he rifled through a random assortment of single socks and receipts, he spoke. “Not to kill the mood, but you’re clean, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Good, me too.”

Marco sat up and let long legs fall over the side of the bed, watching with flushed cheeks as Jean sauntered back over and knelt in front of him. A sharp chin pressed into his knee. Hazel eyes peered up coyly at him. His brow wrinkled, his teeth worrying at the inside of his bottom lip because the arousal that spiked his blood was hot and quick and urgent, and he had never felt so much anticipation. The moment fingers caught on his zipper he looked up, hands fisting in the wrinkled sheets as his eyes fluttered shut. He could feel feather-soft bangs brushing his belly, and one hand knotted shakily into the blonde silk. Being with Jean - in his mouth, his hand - felt like a physical contradiction. The rings on his fingers clicked faintly, rhythmically, and they were cool and hard in stark contrast to the skin they wrapped. Even his tongue was shot through with metal. A whimper escaped Marco as that brush of hard coolness ran along the underside of the head of his cock. 

Denim rasped against skin as Jean pulled his pants down further and pressed kisses to the inside of strong thighs. “You like that?” The barely audible clink of the rings grew louder, faster.

His frown deepened, and he began to rock into Jean’s hand, trying to restrain the weak moans he wanted so desperately to sing for the man on his knees in front of him. “Didn’t know your tongue was pierced,” he breathed.

“‘S not the only thing on me that is.” The moments in between each tap of metal on metal dwindled to the briefest half-second of quiet, and even that was filled with Marco’s hitched breathing. Almost the instant Jean’s mouth joined his hand, he could feel sharp, intense arousal flowering in the pit of his stomach. It caught him off guard, another person providing him with such sheer pleasure. So off guard, in fact, that his own climax bowed his head and shook loose a guttural groan just before his body anticipated it. Brown curls barely brushed the top of Jean’s head as his chest heaved trembling lungfuls of air.

Brown eyes were still heavily lidded when slick, kiss-bitten lips captured his own. 

Jean rose up to his feet and straddled Marco, pressing him onto his back with their chests flush. Wide hands pushed at that mesh top, bunching it up above pierced nipples. He looked down in between them, teasing at the barbells with his thumbs and earning a low hum. “I like these.”

His neck was being brushed with kisses again, and he felt words muffle against his skin. “I’m glad you do,” Jean murmured. “Mm, that feels nice.” Teeth scraped his throat, glowing warmth blooming over his neck as the man in his arms yawned.

“Tired?”

“No, no. Stamina for days, babe.”

Marco wrinkled his nose and laughed. “I hate that you said that.”

“Sue me, those wine and cokes will really get you going.” Another yawn. 

“If you pass out before I get to make you come, I swear...” His laugh was low and brief. 

Jean shook his head and offered his own chuckle. “Do your worst.”

He rolled, swapping their positions and sliding low on Jean’s body, the slope of his back steep as his ass arched high. His lips roamed the swath of skin between navel and where leather hugged sharp hips. Quickly, the leather was in a heap on the floor, and Marco was facing the realization that Jean was the kind of guy who went commando. And he was not unhappy with that fact. The second realization was that when Jean said his tongue wasn’t the only thing that he’d had pierced, he wasn’t just referring to his chest. And that reignited the heat in him that had only just begun to cool and settle.

“You’re so hot.”

Before Jean could speak, he bowed his head and took him into his mouth. Not completely - not nearly all the way. Just enough to tease him, enough to draw the breath out of his lungs in a low sigh. His hand sought the lube that had been left on the floor earlier as he stood and bent over the man sprawled lazily in front of him. Marco wanted let his gaze linger, wanted to take in the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the hectic flush spotting each cheek, the black top, hiked high on his torso. But he didn’t want to be the reason they lost momentum, the one who was getting caught up in nothing. 

After that, it went quickly. 

Panted breaths that replaced themselves with moans and faint grunts joined the sounds of the apartment, a dripping faucet and creaking floorboards. Hips thrusted sharply, and fingers laden with rings tore at the sheets. It was rushed in a good way, fast in the way that fire devours and gunpowder combusts. And the flames were licking at both of them before long. His brow was knitted up, and Jean was nearly whimpering for him. 

The room was ablaze, his lip slipping from between his teeth, Jean’s back arching up from the bed. 

Brown eyes flew open when he heard it. His name, uttered almost silently in a desperate exhalation of breath. 

“Marco, Marco.”

He bowed over him, interrupting his murmurs. Dark hair pricked at his fingers as he cupped the back of Jean’s neck and deepened their kiss. 

“Yes?”

Jean looked startled. His hazel eyes were blown out like a deer in the headlights. “Nothing.”

Brown searched hazel, swam in hazel. “Okay.”

They laid down, Marco’s head on the pillows, Jean’s on his chest. 

He stroked blonde strands, looking down at the top of his head. The intimacy, the closeness to another person, was like catching drops of candle wax on his hand. Scalding, burning, but so warm, so pleasant. Jean was a wick aflame, sparking and fluttering against him. Smoke streaked his skin, but it was almost something that he could get used to. Especially when gentle snores began to rumble against his chest. The bed creaked and Jean grumbled when he rolled them to the side so that Marco could slide out from under him. His pants were still halfway down his thighs. Tucking himself back into his underwear and fastening up his jeans wouldn’t have taken as long as it did had he not been trying to avoid waking the bed’s sole occupant. 

“You leaving?” The words were barely more than a mumble. 

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Marco whispered. 

“I don’t want to keep you.” He shifted drowsily. 

Fingers threaded together as he sat back down by his side. “Don’t worry about it. I want to.” He pulled one of the rumpled blankets over them and tried to settle down, letting a half-asleep Jean curl himself up into his side.

“Thank you.”

Marco’s thumb brushed Jean’s scar. “No, thank you.”


End file.
